Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #253

Entry #253

March 16, 2012

Hello Everyone, it’s me, Wimsey coming to you from the Upper West Side of Manhattan where our Irish spring is well underway. Everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day, even me! My human Maria and her friend Elizabeth have thought about putting a “Kiss Me I’m Irish” button on me and seeing if there are any takers—I bet I’d get more smooches than they would—but they settled for some green sequins around my collar instead.

Well it has been a busy week around here. I was in Draft magazine again owing to my role as label model and all around spokes hound for my brewery, Baying Hound Aleworks (www.baying-hound.com) in Rockville, Maryland. Our good friend Paul gave the magazine an interview and I especially liked his astute observation that bloodhounds don’t have owners, they have staff. Perfectly put. And my staff is extremely attentive and well trained:

Wimsey’s Staff Command Lexicon

Standing near my feeding station and staring: I need more water.

Standing near my feeding station and staring at the water bowl: This water has drool in it. Get me a fresh bowl.

Standing in front of you: I require more kibble. (NB: I free feed so keeping my kibble bowl full at all times is an essential staff function as one never knows when I will feel peckish).

Staring at refrigerator: I want some turkey in my kibble.

Rolling over: I want a belly rub.

Staring at you whilst I am lying down: I wish to be scratched now.

Approaching couch with swishing tail: I am going to get on the couch and sit on you.

Thwacking with paw whilst sitting on the couch next to you: Scratch me.

Thwacking with paw whilst sitting on the couch on my haunches: Scratch my underside.

Sprawling on bed in tipped cow position: Go sleep on the couch.

Staring at you while you are eating: Give me some.

Staring at you while you are cooking: Give me some.

Lying down when my collar and harness appear: I’m resting--give me a cookie if you want to put that on me.

Climbing on a park bench: I require a snack now.

Poking at treat pouch: I require a snack now.

Dancing sideways and walking like a crab: I require a snack now.

Standing by a water fountain: I require water now.

Approaching you after a visit to my water bowl: Give me your leg, I need a napkin.

Squeaking like a rusty hinge: If you don’t give me what I want I’m going to bay. Very loudly. It will hurt your ears. People will think you are mean. They will yell at you. Or they will run away terrified. Either way you will look bad. Do what I want. Now!

But lest you think the relationship is a tad one sided, last night my humans saw a woman working out with her personal trainer—she was hitched up to a harness and dragging a heavy weight. They were all “We know all about that exercise!” and “She doesn’t need a personal trainer, she needs a bloodhound!” And not only do my humans get to tow a heavy weight, the heavy weight also tows them! I make sure my humans get plenty of fresh air and are well exercised without all the time and trouble of a personal trainer. Vet bills well spent I think.

But right now my staff is busy trying to find something for the Hound that has everything, gets everything and everything that he wants he is not allowed to have. Such as the other day, when in sous chef capacity, I generously and repeatedly offered to help Elizabeth clean some raw shrimp. I guarantee that when I clean shrimp you will never find any trace of their dorsal digestive tract. (Or most of the rest of the shrimp either, but that is a technicality). Probably my staff should give up on trying to indulge me for a day when I am indulged every day.

In other news, Pluto went home on Monday, but not before we were out and about in Central Park on Sunday-- the Odd Couple of the dog world entertaining the canineless masses. And we ran into our friend from the ASPCA’s Humane Law Enforcement department and discovered that Pluto is just as uncooperative in the picture-taking department as I am. But I did get to indulge my fantasies of being in law enforcement myself:

Wimsey’s Law Enforcement Assignments

Picnic Inspector: duties include:

-Locating picnics and removing samples of food to ensure safety and wholesomeness;

- Inspecting all toys, balls, Frisbees, etc. to make sure they conform to industry standards and have not been reported lost or stolen.

Wildlife Officer: duties include:

-Ensuring maximum protection of squirrels by chasing them away when they get too close to humans and escorting them to their trees where they will be safe from human intervention.

- Protecting ducks and geese from obesity, as contrary to park regulations, humans insist on feeding them their sandwiches;

- Making sure waterfowl do not get within swimming range of shore;

- Confiscating illicit fowl feeding comestibles.

Mobile TSA Officer: duties include:

- Random nose wanding of pedestrians, paying special attention to the underpants area where contraband items can be secreted.

-Random jumping into motorists vehicles to make sure that there are no dangerous materials therein and demanding to be driven around to make sure it is an actual working vehicle and not a dangerous dummy; (cop cars are not excluded as they are especially vulnerable to being used as decoys).

-Surprise inspections of people’s shopping bags, grocery bags and purses making sure to ram one’s head deep into the aforementioned bags lest any dangerous materials be buried under the new clothing, ground beef or all the miscellaneous junk women haul around in their purses.

Power is granted to confiscate and examine materials further.

Fraud Squad: duties include:

Ensuring that no Hound has been misrepresented to his acquirers as a Golden Retriever.

Well you get the idea. Anyway, one consequence of having Pluto around is that all toys were put away in the closet owing to my delight in taking them away from him and being generally obnoxious with them. (I had previously discovered that he was crated in my old, giant crate with some of these toys leading to a daily crate inspection to see if they might still be there). Well on Monday Elizabeth packed up Pluto’s toys in his travel bag leading me to promptly unpack them whilst her back was turned and to prance around with one that was only a little larger than my nose.Frankly the only interesting thing about Pluto’s toys is that they belong to Pluto. Elizabeth was tempted to turn this into a showdown at the OK Corral until she remembered the Wimsey mantra, “If you have it I want it” and its corollary, “If I can have it I don’t want it.” (She learned this all to well when she bought me a jumbo, expensive deer antler that I chewed on for a microsecond). So she removed Pluto and herself from my presence and proceeded instead to vent via email to Maria (Maria likes to get regular updates that keep her apprised of the perfidy of her Hound). Killjoy. I was forced to abandon the toy and pursue more productive lines of being annoying like replacing the keyboard return with my head.

But it is an apocryphal story as it illustrates the flaws inherent in getting presents—there is simply not as much fun in being given something as there is in stealing it for oneself. As my birthday is coming up it will be all “Here Wimsey look at this new stuffed toy I bought you!” and I’ll be like, “Can I exchange it for a pair of panties from the laundry bin?” Perhaps for my birthday my humans should consider leaving the refrigerator door open or a roast chicken unattended on the counter and chasing me around and screaming at me when I help myself. And if I get any more stuffed toys my humans are going to need larger apartments.

Anyway, Pluto went home to his delighted family and now the place is preternaturally quiet without all the background snorts and snores that I have become accustomed to. And I charge into Elizabeth’s apartment every day, run to my pile of toys to make sure they are not locked away, give them a good squeak and then rummage in my old crate to see if perhaps Pluto left anything behind that I can steal.

Pluto’s humans, by the way, bought Elizabeth a very thoughtful gift—a bottle of Hendricks’s artisanal small batch gin. Such a useful present and one which I am dedicated to ensuring that she will require on a regular basis.

But I am happy to report that signs of spring abound in New York City—and around here it is not just the daffodils that herald the season. The pedicab drivers have returned to 77^th Street meaning that I will no longer have to content myself with merely baying at those at 72^nd Street. The mild weather meant that all the drivers were busy when I discovered their return yesterday but I made up for it by extensively serenading my buddy the dispatcher (we share a common interest in tuna fish).

Then to my delight, I discovered that the Boat Basin café has opened for the season! This is one of my favorite Riverside Park destinations as they always have cookies for me to eat, a cool tile floor for me to lie on, nautical air currents for me to sniff and beer for Elizabeth to drink (I encourage her beer drinking so I can play with the plastic glass afterwards; she says I am a bad influence. I say I can arrange for her to work off the calories). I just wish they’d sell Baying Hound ale because then we’d be down there all the time waiting for people to recognize me.

And of course, spring brings crowds of tourists (and their water bottles) back to Central Park. We encountered several large tour groups this week and I love to plunge into their midst absorbing their adulation and wonder, receiving suitable tactile tributes and sniffing the maximum number of crotches per second possible. For those of you who are involved in therapy dog work, this is known as “crowded petting” and therapy dogs must tolerate this even though most canines don’t generally like it. And every time I wade into a large group of enveloping strangers, Elizabeth, who assisted in therapy dog training class, has an “Oh no! crowded petting!” moment and carefully observes me for any sign of distress. The distress happens when all those hands go away. What can I say; I am an idiosyncratic Hound of uncommon tastes. (If you want to see me distressed, get out a measuring tape and try to measure me!).

And speaking of tastes, we move on to our next Snack of the Week. My humans have become my snack sommeliers, making sure that I appreciate the distinctive rustle of each package, the bouquet of the snack, its mouth feel and of course its presentation. Snacks of the Week make their appearance on Monday afternoon when Elizabeth comes to pick me up and needs to lure me off of Maria’s bed so she can clean out my ears.

This week’s Snack of the Week is Yapple-nanas, apple and banana flavored treats by Bil Jac. Now Maria had some trepidation about this snack, having discovered years ago that a Bil Jac food that her bloodhounds loved had a lot of fat and sugar. But she needn’t have feared—according to the label the first two ingredients of these snacks are chicken and chicken livers. It does contain natural and artificial banana and apple flavors as its last ingredient, hence the name. Now these snacks are completely different than the others I have been testing—they consist of tiny chewy squares half inch around that are delightful to pop into one’s mouth (my humans refer to then as the gumdrops). And in addition to the chewy mouth feel they emit a strong bouquet that is a stunning mixture of meat and fruit. I find them to be quite addictive—it’s hard to eat just one. Because of their small size and obvious appeal the package highlights their suitability for training. Of course this presupposes that one has a dog suitable for training.

Anyway, I’m afraid that all this snack reviewing has turned me into a bona fide snackaholic and my humans believe that I have become a snack fiend badly in need of a 10-step program. I do confess that I have been spending a rather inordinate amount of time cadging snacks during our walks but as a diligent reviewer I have to make sure the snack is consistently good under a variety of atmospheric conditions and tastes equally good whether one is refusing to get off the bed or refusing to get off a park bench.

Well I think I will leave it there for this week. Given that Monday is my birthday and tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day I am thinking a little corned beef might be in order tomorrow.

Until next time,

Wimsey, if you have it, I want it but if you want to give it to me, don’t bother.

(The exception is the 5lbs of Hungarian honey cookies that my grandmother sent me for my birthday!)

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #252

Entry #252

March 10, 2012

Hello Everyone, Wimsey here coming to you from the Upper West Side of Manhattan where my own version of March Madness is well underway as our weather oscillates seemingly at random between winter and spring and I oscillate seemingly not at random between being loud and obnoxious and being really loud and obnoxious. But of course the madness that I cause is pretty much in the mind of my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth who mange to be mad about and mad at me all at the same time.

Well it’s been a very busy week around here as Sunday kicked off Wimsey Birthday Month. The actual date is March 19^th and as usual it is a challenge to provide me with goods and services that I don’t already possess. Fortunately on Sunday my humans realized that it had been quite some time since I last got my capacious flews around a tuna sandwich from the Boat House Café in Central Park, so off we trotted thither.

Now it is often said that anticipation is one of the most important elements associated with the pleasures of receiving a gift and I can personally vouch for this. First there was the wait as Elizabeth went inside the cafe to stand on line; then there was the wait as they made the sandwich to order; then there was the wait as I could see (and smell) her approaching me with the delectable comestible. And finally there was the anxious wait as Elizabeth tasted the sandwich to make sure that the recipe still contained no onions which are toxic to those of my kind (the whole tasting thing is a mixed blessing—on one hand I enjoy being a bloodhound important enough to swan around with my own personal food taster—and of course I reciprocate the service frequently-- but on the other hand SOMEONE IS EATING MY SANDWICH). Well as you can imagine the anticipatory effects of an impending tuna fish sandwich on the Wimsey salivary glands was pretty impressive, a situation that was much admired by passersby and much feared by Maria who knew very well what the effect of even a small shake of my head would be on those onlookers.

Anyway, I ascended a bench in front of the cafe and prepared to be hand fed this large mound of heavily mayo’ed tuna on a fresh Kaiser roll. Hand feeding is essential to the full enjoyment of most meals but especially this one as the tuna is quite mushy and requires just the right proportion of bread to ensure that none of it escapes my loose but eager lips. Well of course a giant Hound seated on a bench being fed bite-sized pieces of tuna sandwich is not a sight one sees everyday and as such we attracted quite a crowd. Just the thing to whet one’s appetite before a spot of lunch! (My audience was probably considerably less squeamish than Elizabeth, who, upon seeing the effect of copious quantities of drool upon tuna fish, let alone on her hands, opined that she may never eat another tuna sandwich again.)

But still watching was preferable to my mini-invasion of this English family’s snack at Le Pain Quotidien (here I recommend the chicken sandwich on a baguette)—they all thought it was pretty funny when I shook my head and the inevitable happened, especially since my efforts seem to have concentrated themselves on their son not on them. But what can I say? Tourists are warned that New York is a dangerous city.

And in late breaking medical news, it’s official—I did not give Elizabeth the tick that caused her newfound Lyme Disease! My tick panel is once again negative so unless a Lyme tick just decided to hitch a ride to her apartment without snacking on me, I didn’t do it! Personally I am leaning towards the theory that my natural fragrance affords me some degree of protection from these critters—I mean even getting to my actual skin would require a laborious journey though a very smelly and dense jungle, so why bother when there are so many more pleasant options—like hairless and hygiene obsessed humans. Also biting through my skin can’t be very easy—I’m told it’s very thick. So it’s nice that Elizabeth can stop giving me those dirty looks every time she reaches for that jumbo-sized bottle of antibiotics.

Also this week, Elizabeth has a houseguest for six days—Pluto, the little French bulldog puppy whose prowess at being a little chip off the old Hound grows apace. On Friday for instance, he decided to augment the generous supply of kibble that I toss about on the kitchen floor (Pluto likes to hunt and consume the bits of kibble that I liberally distribute around Elizabeth’s apartment) by ducking under my fully loaded feeding station and then standing up! He’s small, but not that small. Water, kibble and bowls went flying everywhere! And better yet, Elizabeth was on the phone when it happened! He’s a real mini me!

And in addition to having the opportunity to play bitey head with him (his face is too small for actual bitey face) I also appreciate his wide repertoire of vocalizations. Now as many of you know, I have been known to bay. And while I have a variety of bays to suit every occasion, to the uninitiated they mostly all sound alike—loud and like there’s been an unexpected prison break. I do also make a noise like a squeaky hinge, but unless you count the occasional air woof, that is pretty much it. Well my protégé Pluto has an endless stock of snorts, wheezes, chortles, yips, grunts, groans, squeaks and barks and nothing really puts a human in their place (other than being loudly bayed at) than an indignant and contemptuous snort from a little bulldog. In addition the talented little fellow can also make a noise like a West Country pirate and Elizabeth very much fears she will hear an “aye matey” escape his lips one day. And he can also make a noise like a sheep! (Although there is some controversy about this as Pluto’s humans think he sounds more like a goat). It’s all very inspiring.

But along the lines of would you rather be stabbed or shot, I present

Wimsey’s (and Hobson’s) Choice:

Would you rather be:

A) Bayed at until your ears hurt and people come running to see what horrible thing you’ve done or failed to do for your lovely, large Hound or

B) Snorted at indignantly in a manner that proclaims you to be a deeply flawed human being incapable of any generosity whatsoever, especially when it comes to the contents of your dinner plate.

Would you rather be:

A) Woken at intervals throughout the night by the drool, wrinkles and icy olfactory organ of a diligently bed checking Hound or

B: Woken at intervals during the night by a bulldog puppy too small to jump on the bed who circles it making loud pirate noises.

Would you rather:

A) Trip over the leash of a large dog in pursuit of a fast squirrel or

B) Trip over the leash of a small dog in pursuit of a slow pigeon

Would you rather be:

A) Unable to go in the direction you intended owing to the presence of a large, immobile Hound who wishes to go in any direction other than the one you choose or

B) Unable to go in the direction you intended owing to the presence of a small, immobile bulldog who will go anywhere you want to go as long as it is the same way he wants to go

Would you rather be:

A) Sat upon by a 125lb Hound who won’t let you read the newspaper or

B) Sat upon by a 25lb bulldog puppy who wants to eat the newspaper

Would you rather be:

A) Woken up at dawn by a cheerful flow of wrinkles and drool in one’s face or

B) Woken up at dawn by indignant little paws scratching one’s head.

Would you rather be:

A) Tripped by a giant Hound who has become convinced of the necessity of occupying the middle of the kitchen floor while food preparations are underway or

B) Tripped by a small bulldog who has become convinced of the necessity of occupying the bathroom mat while you are in the shower.

Would you rather:

A) Have the recyclables pile torn into small pieces by a large dog or

B) Have the recyclables pile torn into big pieces by a small dog

Would you rather:

A) Explain to someone why Pluto is not an English bulldog

B) Explain to someone why Wimsey is not a St. Bernard

Would you rather be:

A) Humiliated by an incredibly cute, entitled and stubborn large Hound or

B) Humiliated by an incredibly cute, entitled and stubborn small Frenchie

(As an aside, my humans want to know how come when people see Pluto they say, “Oh Frenchies are very cute but they are very stubborn” but when they see me they say, “Oh, he’s very cute and so intelligent and so well behaved”. Nooooooooooo!!!!)

Well all I can say is that Pluto’s humans are very lucky that he is not my size---the things he’d see (the buffet on the kitchen counter) and the places he’d go (into the garbage bin). Also if he were bigger I wouldn’t be able to take all his toys away from him, which I enjoy doing so much that Elizabeth, whose experience has taught her that if I enjoy doing something it is very probably not something that she wants me to do, was forced to hide them in the closet. I mean really—I can smell a discarded sandwich twenty blocks away but she thinks I won’t smell heavily Pluto-scented toys in the closet! (And I’m the one who has a reputation for being a few neurons short of a full brain???) So all this means is that I keep trying to break into the closet. And Elizabeth keeps trying to break into the gin bottle.And lest one think that Elizabeth is being cruel about not sleeping with Pluto, her previous nap experience with him was not a great success on account of the fact that he likes to sleep with his head on her shoulder so he can snore in her ear. She is very unlucky in the bed sleeping dog department—I won’t sleep on the bed unless I am its sole occupant, unless it is very cold and I require the services of a human heating pad. (And while Maria has never actually spent the night on the floor where I shoved her, she has been known to sleep on the couch because it’s easier than disturbing me when I am comfortably ensconced in her bed).

There was, however, one noteworthy exception when we were on the road at a dog show—Elizabeth discovered that by dint of occupying the merest sliver on the edge of a California King I could be persuaded to occupy the rest of the bed. It was thought that perhaps if I had beauty sleep of a sufficient quality I might perform better in the show ring. But alas like so many promising hypotheses this one too was quickly disproved (although as I recall the decibel level of my baying was considerably enhanced and my galloping during my down and back had a certain something extra on it).

Pluto has also been very useful in helping me with my evaluation of The Snack of the Week (courtesy of Mr. Chewy who donated the snacks to me because of my reputation for having a fine and discerning palate). This week we have Newman’s Own organic Salmon and Sweet Potato dog cookies, which I must say, are quite tasty. They have a fine nose with a well balanced blend of grain (barley in this case) and fish and are of a sufficient size to give them good mouth feel and a reasonable degree of playability should one desire to push them around with one’s nose in order fulfill one’s live prey hunting fantasies (my humans disapprove of these fantasies which they fear might lead all too quickly to some live prey hunting realities). I might have preferred stronger notes of fish in the bouquet but I suspect my humans would have objected to this as they usually do to really pleasing smells such as rotting rodent.

Anyway, the cookies have a very satisfying crunchy quality and are heart shaped in order to emphasize how much our humans love us. The heart is scored so it can be broken into two pieces for those not fortunate enough to have a large canine such as myself. Personally I like the symbolism of breaking hearts and grinding them up—makes up a little for the cookies not being actually alive—and for those tubby types they are only 6% fat. Pluto concurs with everything I said as is prudent when dealing with someone who is five times your size. Frenchies might be small but they’re smart.

Anyway, I think I will leave it there for this week (a good week to buy stock in Tanqueray by the way). March is so far off to a great start even for a month that contains such exciting events as my birthday, St. Patricks’ Day, the official start of spring and of course the Ides when my humans fear I will do something even more piloerectory than usual.

Until next time,

Wimsey, The Large, The Loud and the Ludicrous (but not The Lymed)

PS: If anyone should be able to make pirate noises it should be me!

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #251

Entry #251

March 3, 2012

Hello Everyone, Wimsey here, coming to you from Manhattan’s Upper West Side where I am a day late and a dollar short (I visited the vet yesterday) and where we are mercifully tornado free. If there were to be a tornado my human Maria and I would high tail it over to her friend Elizabeth’s building’s basement for protection from the elements—a spot I have been itching to get to as it contains the laundry room.

Well as you may surmise from my tardiness, the week, and especially yesterday, was very busy. I entertained my French bulldog puppy Pluto quite a bit and supervising the little rascal took time, as did my usual kitchen surveillance activities, augmented these days by Elizabeth’s newfound predilection for popcorn. The excellent thing about popcorn is that the mounds are rarely stable and therefore create abundant culinary opportunity. And on

Thursday I hit the jackpot when Elizabeth tripped and half the bowl (the top part with all the butter) went flying all over the carpet and as I wished to spare her the prospect of butter stains on the rug I sprang into action with a speed not seen since she dumped dinner on the kitchen floor (clumsiness in a human being one of their primary assets). It was over in seconds—like it never happened, except that I had a bellyful of buttered popcorn and she didn’t. Which is as it should be.

I also put in an appearance at the vet’s yesterday (when do I not?) to once again have my anal glands inspected. I have been having a spot (or more than a spot) of trouble back there and the vet has been monitoring the effects of an expensive shot of antibiotic which appears to be having the desired effect. Who knew humans could get so excited over anal glands but I guess the fact that I like to smear messy bits of my anatomy—like my muzzle after I have had a lengthy drink of water—on them might be partially responsible. My humans think laundry machines should have a special anal gland cycle.

I was also hustled over there to give blood for yet another tick test—it seems that Elizabeth’s vet called her with the astonishing news that she tested positive for Lyme Disease. Now acquiring Lyme Disease at any time would be pretty surprising given the rather voluminous nature of my humans’ sartorial habits--they both have skin that burns if they sit under a lamp too long so spring and summer wear is long on fabric and short on exposed skin, and that which is exposed is heavily smeared with revolting sun block; winter wear, even in a mild winter, includes long johns and multiple layers that are designed to be impervious to the elements (although not to drool) let alone ticks—but a mid-winter infection requires the kind of special talent that only I possess, hence my test.

Elizabeth’s vet asked her where she could have acquired such a disease and as deer ticks are probably pretty thin on the ground in Oslo and London this time of year—her two most recent trips—her attention naturally focused on me. I do expect to be vindicated, but Elizabeth is pretty convinced that the test is erroneous in any case and I greatly fear that her physician is in for the type of lecture cum grand inquisition that she usually reserves for my long suffering vets.

Anyway, now few things get people as riled up as criticizing the behavior of their dogs or their kids—especially here in New York City where there are plenty of both living cheek by jowl and no shortage of forceful and opinionated personalities. My humans come in for more than their share of comments from this urban peanut gallery vis my dynamic walking style, my vociferous baying and my abiding interest in putting my nose in places that noses are not generally supposed to be. And of course whatever the TV dog training style du jour is that is what is suggested, people not understanding that my humans kind of like me the way I am (except when they don’t) and in any case, they don’t have much of a choice, as we Hounds are pretty committed to going our own way (as long as that way is not the same way that our humans want to go in).

But dogs are not the only ones who come in for training manuals—kids have had to contend with the Tiger Moms and the anti-Tiger Moms and over the last few weeks, a new book suggesting that the French are better parents. Now it is an accepted fact that the French are better at most things (especially according to the French), netting out a couple of world wars, so why should dog training be any different:

Bringing up Chien: A French Guide to Dog Training

Bonjour! Welcome tout le monde to yet another example of French superiority in the fine art of living—we have beaten the Anglo Saxons in the matters of food, wine, fashion, art and perfume and are now about to extend our hegemony to the art of dog training. The fact that you have to read about it in the headache-inducing English language is bien sûr a travesty but it’s the price to pay for having a language so beautiful that no one is able to pronounce it properly.

Alors, let us begin. But first we must have a cigarette and an espresso—a proper breakfast is essential to the success of any dog training enterprise.

Now the essence of French dog training, like the essence of French child rearing is to create the cadre or framework in which the child or dog can thrive. As our first example we are going to teach Monsieur le Hound to sit:

“Bonjour M. le Hound. Comment allez- vous aujourd'hui? Sit s’il vous plait.” (The key to French dog training is also to be calm, assertive and very polite).

As we can see, M. le Hound has declined to sit. Do not be discouraged.

“Voila! Ici I have a fine piece of foie gras. Perhaps Monsieur would care to reconsider his decision in exchange for this excellent French delicacy? Yes I thought so. Très bien!”

We have successfully taught M. le Hound the sit. Now let us move on to the down:

Would M. le Hound be so kind as to lie down? Non? The Monsieur does not feel inclined to lie down at this moment? There is a table leg that needs chewing. C’est dommage because here I have an excellent piece of fragrant Camembert which would be even more delicious when consumed from a recumbent position. Très bien! I see you are in d’accord.”

Monsieur le Hound has mastered the down. It is important to note that if the Camembert causes one to resort to Le Febreze, a firmer cheese, such as Morbier, can easily be substituted. Versatility is the essence of French Dog Training. Next we have come:

Would Monsieur le Hound care to come this way? Non? I see Monsieur has comfortably established himself on the Aubusson but perhaps this confit de canard might change his mind? I understand that the Monsieur is quite fond of ducks. Eh bien, I can see that I was not misinformed, Monsieur is indeed a lover of the poultry.

But now we must pause. In his enthusiasm, M. le Hound has deranged my scarf which must be retied as the ability to tie and wear a scarf properly is one of the great French cultural achievements right up there with putting a pyramid in the middle of the Louvre. It is crucial to remain chic throughout French Dog Training, otherwise the dog will not respect you. Now we are ready to face our greatest challenge—inducing M. le Hound to heel. This requires a very special, proprietary technique as M. le Hound is by nature not a heeler of legs but a dislocater of shoulders:

S'il vous plait! S'il vous plait! Monsieur le Hound you are hurting me! Mais oui, I know Monsieur does not care about this but perhaps Monsieur will care instead about Monsieur le Live Squirrel that I am wearing in a bag around my waist. Yes, I see, Monsieur cares very much about his ami M. le Squirrel and is interested in keeping him under close observation and wishes to get to know him better. Bien fait! A heel magnifique has been achieved!

So, as you can see, French dog training techniques are not only highly effective and take advantage of our innate cultural superiority but are flexible as well—all manner of fine French food, from steak frites to escargots de Bourgogne may be used. In fact rotating the menu is preferred so as to teach the Hound that he may sit not only for foie gras but for boudin blanc as well. And it is never permitted to smack one’s Hound over the nose with a baguette however much one feels the urge. But of course, one can always save oneself a lot of time and money, not to mention the content of one’s refrigerator, by electing to train Monsieur le Golden Retriever instead!

I always knew there was a reason why French dogs were so well behaved! And speaking of food it is now time for my Snack of the Week report. This week, in addition to my humans toting around bribing turkey, a supply of my usual Old Mother Hubbard biscuits and last week’s Snack of the Week, they were carrying Ziwi Peak Venison Recipe Premium Meat Jerky Treats. My eye was immediately caught by the packaging which lists these as “Good Dog” treats making them wholly inappropriate for my consumption (why are there never “Bad Dog” treats to accommodate those of us who are independent thinkers and who have a lot of personality?).

Nevertheless I condescended to sample these snacks with the proviso that no “good dog” behavior be expected. (The only way to induce “good dog” behavior in a Hound is via a brain transplant). Now these snacks are quite tasty with an excellent nose, plenty of body and a strong finish. In addition to strong notes of deer as one would expect in a snack labeled venison, there are also surprising minor notes of the ocean owing to the inclusion of fish oil in the formula.

However, although I liked these snacks quite a bit, their minute size makes them rather inappropriate for one of my giant size. The jerky is cut up into tiny rectangles 1x 0.5 inches making them better suited to less massive canines than myself and making my humans look like pikers for proffering just one. Their diminutive size would make them rather useful as training treats should such an activity have been possible with me (I do actually have a diploma from puppy obedience school which Maria found shocking considering that I was routinely booted from class for being disruptive; her theory is that the teacher did not want to see me again).

Anyway, I think I will leave it there for this week. I am hoping that the temperatures become more spring like to match the development of the flowerbeds—I am once again beginning my annual treat of pooping amidst floral splendor and hollering humans.

Until next time,

Wimsey, The “I did not give Elizabeth a Lyme Tick for her Birthday” Hound